Day 224 – Bad Day – Christmas Wish – Part One – Short Story

I feel it hit me, the pain, everything, it’s not what I thought it was going to be, this job, it’s my last, but, it may not be because of the reasons I want it to be.

Three days ago, Kildone came to me, he wanted a big fish removed, and I told him, after this, I was done. He didn’t take it well, but said he understood, after all, it was almost Christmas, and he’d let me go, if I gave him one last gift. What he didn’t know was I’d just found out I was going to become a dad, it’s a big thing to someone like me, who’s never had anyone else to worry about, anyone, to look up at me and see a role model. So, I decided, this was it.

I went to work, like I always have, concentrated on the target, did all the homework I could, to make sure nothing went wrong. They called him Big Poppa Stan, local thug who’d worked his way up to the head of the Mariatzi family, small time hoods, who had their eyes somewhere else, on bigger things, Kildone’s things.

For most of my life I’d worked for Kildone, he took me in, off the streets, taught me all I knew, and, as we both found out, I was a fast learner.

I worked my way into Stan’s fortress, I say fortress, but I really mean the back end of Charlotte town, he’d evicted most of the residents and set up a small citadel of his own, where if you didn’t bow down to him, you were made an example of. I packed light, too light I started to think, seems his thugs were everywhere, I hadn’t even really set foot into his world and I was thin on supplies, but, I knew how to improvise, and his goons had enough weaponry, that I was able to pick  and choose from their toys.

It wasn’t until I took a hit to the shoulder, and went down, that I realised I was in a lot more trouble than I originally thought. It stung, I’d been shot before, heaps of times in fact, but this was different, this fucking hurt, and burnt like a mother-fucker. I realised the prick had his men lace the insides of their cartridges with acid, to add a little extra to the punch, and I knew, from then on in, I couldn’t take another hit.

I attacked, the element of surprise was gone, and they came out of every nook and cranny, guns blazing, but I knew, for the sake of my family, I had to do this, I had to make sure Kildone was out of my hair, for good, so I worked my way in, like a tick. Four of them hit the floor as I wasted the last of my bullets, and it was hand to hand, until I got close enough to a weapon. Twelve hours, eighty seven dead, and I had four nice holes in my hide, that kept growing. That’s when I saw him, in the flesh, not just a photo, he seemed, less human, and more like some kind of deranged horror character from some b grade movie, I could see why they all feared him now, because I sure as hell did.

I felt it hit the back of my head, and then darkness grabbed me, when I opened my sore fucking eyes, he was sitting in a chair, made of bones, fucking theatrics were high here, he knew who I was, heard many great things, and wanted to make a deal. I told him I’m not that sort of guy, and he smiled, the fucker, he said my woman, the one who was going to birth my seed into this world was his, and if I didn’t he would make sure her, and my unborn would suffer at his hands, knowing that it was I who cursed their existence. Fucker had me in a tight spot, so, I did what anyone would do, I asked him what the fuck he wanted, and he said the word I knew he’d say.

He wanted Kildone.

Published by

Matthew Tonks

People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time and dream of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.” So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.

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